One of my favorite movies growing up
was the Indivisible Man. Wrapped
in bandages from head to toe, his corpus
could not be disassembled. I like that idea:
wish I hadn’t lost both my arms
in a sewing accident. Wish, in fact,
you hadn’t left me when you did.

Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
They love each other. They bow shyly as wet swans.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

Poem is not just thudding, mute medallion;
not just dumb, a token. It’s also the big
CAN’T SORRY to a world of worry that this
isn’t enough this, that I’m that, I’m all,
all. Poem is the no to your yes. Ford Escape
hatch from big marketing. It’s a Juul break
when all you wanted was 10,000 spoons. Nothing cat-
chy, poem is death to all catchy. It’s the garbage
to your carefully cleaned & jerked syntax.

Cleaned and shanked.
Filleted. Stripped and hissing on a brazier.

Poems get ya. They know what ya think about.
Know ya secretly hate you, and maybe
not so secretly. Be this thing for a moment.
The tawdry DEAR GOD PLEASE NO when everyone
else nods in unison, “Hey yes, take our photo.
We are in love here. We do nice things now.”
I hate it all, Archibald. This WHAT WE’VE BECOME
when what we had been was cold, a heavy
medal pressed twixt forefinger and thumb.